Lost and Found (6 page)

"That's all?"

"That's it, babe. I'll let you fill him in on 'who you are.'"

"You know, Jason, a lot of men would be proud to bring me home to Daddy."

He's quiet for a minute. "I am proud to introduce you to my dad, but not for the reasons you suggest."

"What do you mean?"

"It's not about what you do, Andee. It's about who you are—who you're becoming. Not the titles—financial advisor to the rich and famous, radio personality, author—but who you are on the inside. That's who I want to introduce to my dad."

"You can't separate the two."

"Really? I think you can. In fact, I think you have to."

I feel my pulse accelerating. "Forget it." I reach for the shoulder strap of the seatbelt and pull it away from my chest. "Tell me about your dad. What's he like? It sounds like he's a hands-on businessman?"

"My dad—"

I take a deep breath and sit back in my seat when I realize Jason's willing to change the subject.

"—is an enigma. He's driven, certainly, but not to the exclusion of all else. He works hard, he plays hard, and he loves hard. And hands-on? Yeah. He loves what he does. He's kept the company small—manageable—so he can be hands-on." Jason takes the steering wheel in his left hand and reaches for me with his right hand. He holds my hand and rubs my wrist with his thumb as he talks. "When my mom died, something in my dad died with her. But something new was also born."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, that's when Azul was conceived, during my mom's illness. Before, wine had been a hobby for my mom and dad. Something they enjoyed together. They'd tour wineries, wander through the vineyards of neighboring ranches, enjoy evenings dining under the stars and sipping their favorite labels, notating varieties and vintages. They'd dream of someday planting the acreage of their ranch and opening a winery of their own. But the joy was in the dream . . . not in the living out of the dream."

"What's the point of dreaming if you're not going to accomplish the dream?"

"Like I said, for the joy of it."

"The joy comes in seeing the dream to fruition."

"Not always."

I shake my head but decide not to debate him.

"But when my mom was diagnosed, a shift took place in my dad. That year, he began selling off the cattle that roamed the ranch and planted his first hundred acres of grapes. Pinot Noir. And as long as my mom was able, he'd walk her out to the vineyards and they'd track the progress of the seedlings.

"For the better part of the year, he spoke of nothing but grapes and the winery he and my mother would open. As long as he kept the dream alive, he thought he could keep my mother alive."

"But it didn't work?"

"No. She died nineteen months after the initial diagnosis."

"But the dream lived on?"

"Yes, and though it didn't keep my mother alive, I think it kept Dad alive. It gave him purpose."

"So . . . the vineyards, the drive to achieve the dream, kept him going."
Drive determines destiny.

Jason nods.

"What about the label?
Azul.
Where did the name come from?"

"It's Spanish. It means blue."

"I know. But why that name?" My question is answered with silence and I wonder if he heard me. "Jason?" He stares at the road ahead. I reach out and place my hand on his arm. "Did you hear me?"

He turns, glances at me, and then turns his gaze back to the road. He clears his throat. "Yeah, I heard you. My mother was Mexican-American—the daughter of my father's ranch manager and his American wife." He's quiet for a moment and then says more to himself than to me "She was beautiful." His tone is wistful. "Her skin was the color of melted chocolate and her eyes were the color of a twilight sky."

"Azul . . ."

Jason nods. "Yes. Jenna has her eyes."

I think back to meeting Jenna at the brunch and recall the intense color of her eyes—her beauty. Then I remember the scar, but that will be a topic for another time. I've heard the rumors but decide not to broach the subject now.

Jason continues his little jaunt into his past and the hour-and-twenty-minute drive zips by. As we enter the valley, I look out the passenger window and tick off the rows of vines as they fly past. I listen as Jason talks while calculating the information he offers.

The car slows as we turn into a winding drive flanked on either side by low rock walls, and I hear the tone of Jason's voice change.

"Andee . . ." Jason pulls into a parking space outside the administration offices of the winery and puts the car in park. He turns toward me. "Azul is more than a business to my family. As you work with Brigitte, I want you to remember that."

Surprised by the passion I hear in his voice, I hold my response.

"You mentioned something the other night and I want to be clear with you. You made the assumption that Jenna and Gerard's marriage was a business merger." He shifts in his seat and looks out the front window for a moment. "That wasn't and isn't the case. At least not from our perspective.
Azul
is more than a business to my father, Andee."

I nod as I assimilate this bit of information.

"Do you understand?"

"Sure."

He pats my shoulder and turns and gets out of the car. As I wait for him to open my door, I have just one thought:
The game is getting interesting.

You will not see things as He does until you have clearer light.

JEANNE GUYON

MEMORIES OF MY
mother tug at the recesses of my mind, calling forward longings so familiar they are woven, I'm certain, into the fabric of my fate, likely having informed every choice I've made since her death. I remember lying next to her in bed when she was sick—curling into the warmth of her and twisting strands of her long, silken hair around my fingers. She'd turn her head and through cracked lips whisper, "Jenna Brooke, my little lamb."

As I climb the stairs to our suite, I feel the welcoming warmth of Brigitte's kiss lingering on my cheek and wonder at the concern I saw in her expression. I want to believe, need to believe, her love is genuine. Yet, I so often doubt her.

After my mother's death, I lived in a world of men—my father, Jason, and the many men who tended the vineyards and worked in the winery. Then, when I was twelve, I met Brigitte at a vintners' dinner hosted by my father. I'd been allowed to greet guests with him as they arrived.

Brigitte's elegance sang like fine crystal and the song drew me. Her attention stirred the longings I'd attempted to bury with my mother when I was seven years old—longings for beauty, tenderness, and love. And later, the longing to embrace my impending womanhood. A daunting task without a woman to guide me through that delicate transition.

While my father taught me the wiles of winemaking and introduced me to a way of life known only to those who live amongst the vines, it was Brigitte who noticed and then nurtured my beauty—tending to me like one of those precious vines. Brigitte trained me and I grew into her vision of the woman Gerard needed. Like a plant reaching for the sun, I grasped for Brigitte's attention and determined I'd flourish and bear fruit for her.

I gave Brigitte the place in my heart left gaping upon the loss of my own mother.

As I reach my room, I recognize how I still grasp for and cling to Brigitte's approval.

I am ever the trained vine.

Was I what Gerard needed? Or was I, in some way, what she needed? Perhaps Brigitte's void was as great as my own.

Maybe it's my need that so often leaves me feeling crazy in Brigitte's presence. I think of Skye and tuck these thoughts away for our next conversation. I look forward, always, to the wisdom she imparts. I leave our times together with a deeper understanding of human nature—and a fledgling understanding of myself. I wish I could hold onto that understanding, but my mind feels like a sieve—what's poured in, drains out, leaving just the sediment of what I've always known.

I pass the alcove off our master suite, where my desk and laptop sit surrounded by shelves of books. I stop, open the lid of the computer, and watch as the screen lights up. I sit at the desk and open my mailbox and scan the list of e-mails. They'll have to wait. I open a new message and type a quick note to Skye, apologizing for my abrupt departure today and asking if I can buy her lunch soon. She'll pick up the e-mail either at the library or an Internet cafe. It may be today, or a week from today, but I'll hear from her.

I close the lid to the laptop. Brigitte waits.

I'm warmed by her concern.

Maybe, if I'm careful, our conversation will end well today. Maybe we'll find the footing we've shared in the past.

Is that what I want?

I remove the jacket I'm wearing and cross the room to the dressing area. As I hang the jacket, I notice the small crescent-shaped bruises on my upper arm. I rub my hand across the yellowing marks and recall the many times through the years that I've wished she'd actually hit me—wished she'd leave her mark in a visible, tangible way.

Yet, what do a few small bruises mean? In a moment of self-awareness, I recognize that the wounds she's inflicted are so much deeper than a surface bruise.

Though,
I tell myself again,
she doesn't mean to hurt me.
Anyway maybe things will be different this time. After all, if I hadn't lingered in the solarium the morning of the brunch, if I'd fulfilled my role as hostess and instead greeted guests with Brigitte and Gerard, if I hadn't been so selfish and taken off on my own, then Brigitte wouldn't have become angry.

I think back to those moments in the solarium and recall the stirring breeze and the sense of love and peace that enveloped me. A moment of pure joy. Yes, my focus shifted when Brigitte came in, but do I really allow her to stand in the way of my relationship with God, as Skye implied? I think of Skye's nickname for Brigitte—Madame B. Maybe I've misrepresented Brigitte to Skye. Guilt surfaces. I shouldn't talk about her. It isn't fair. Brigitte was right to be upset the morning of the brunch. I shirked my duties—I can see that now.

I feel the flush of fever spread across my brow as a wave of nausea passes. Perhaps Brigitte is right and I should contact Dr. Bernard. Maybe it is time for another opinion. How foolish I've been to resist her efforts to help me.

Optimistic that I can right what I've wronged—yet again—I head downstairs.

I find Brigitte waiting for me in the solarium, but instead of tea, there's a bottle of wine and two glasses on a tray on the glass table between the two settees, along with a plate of cheeses and fruit. "I thought we were having tea," I say as Brigitte reaches for the bottle and begins to pour.

"I thought you might prefer a glass of wine. You know, if we were in France . . ."

She winks at me, her implication clear. She picks up a glass and hands it to me. I take the glass by the stem and twirl it. The straw-colored wine swirls around the bowl of the glass. I lift it to my nose and breathe in the bouquet. "Honeysuckle. And"—I lift the glass to my nose again—"a hint of orange."

I haven't told Brigitte of my decision to shirk denial and stop drinking. She won't understand, nor will she respect my choice.

"It's one of Domain de la Bouvier's new still wines. A chardonnay."

Perhaps I don't have to tell her. Maybe just a sip every now and then . . .

I feel the tension in my shoulders ease as I lift the glass to my lips "Mmm . . . the Los Carneros region. My dad's grapes?"

Brigitte smiles. "Ah . . . the vineyards are in your blood, chérie. You know, once you are well, maybe it's time we consider how to put that degree of yours to work."

She sets the bottle back on the tray and reaches for her glass, which I notice is only half as full as the one she's poured for me.

"And yes, they're your father's grapes, and the Bouvier label. It's one of the organic wines that Gerard and Jason were so eager to cocreate." She shakes her head. "Organic. Ridiculous, really. Not cost efficient."

"No, but it's good for the environment. And for the points."

"Yes, but we only gain a point or two. And that is nothing but a ploy in my opinion. But your father is doing some organic farming anyway, as you know." She waves her hand. "It is just a fad."

I ignore Brigitte's disdain. I learned the benefits of organic farming as it relates to winemaking during my years of study at Cal Poly. Pesticides and herbicides hamper the vines' ability to absorb natural chemicals from the soil. Wines made with organic grapes display the distinctive flavor of the site where the grapes are grown. And both Jason and Gerard know that the point value is important to consumers—a grade of sorts—and is therefore reflected in sales.

I take another sip of the chardonnay and relish the hints of butterscotch and baked apples. One sip begs another.

"So, tell me. What did the doctor say?" Brigitte has set her glass back on the table. Her stature is relaxed but her gaze intent. Her eyes hold mine—as though she is working not to look at my jawline.